


To a Person More Deserving

by Steve



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-06-29 21:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 12,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15737520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: Ficlets and prompt fills for Critical Role, mostly relationship pieces between the Mighty Nein.20. Slow Burn (Jester/Beau)21. One Kiss (Fjord/Caleb)22. Favors (Jester/Beau)23. Temperature (Fjord/Jester)





	1. To Us (Yasha & Molly)

**Author's Note:**

> I was wine-drunk and facing writer's block with my WIPs, so I cracked open a prompt meme over at my [Tumblr](http://halfgap.tumblr.com/). Gradually editing and uploading the results on AO3 now.
> 
> Any other CR ficlets I write or short requests I fill will eventually go in here as well.
> 
> Title is a lyric from "Heartilation" by AJJ.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Molly and Yasha + "things you said when we were on top of the world"

“You know, I always take these things and I never feel anything.”

Even as she says it, though, a smile won’t stop tugging the corners of her mouth, as is too easily the case when faced with the undiluted giddiness of a high-out-of-his-mind Mollymauk Tealeaf. Not that anything about a sober Mollymauk is diluted in the slightest, his incessant voice in her head is quick to remind her.

He grabs Yasha’s hand in both of his, cheeky smile intact even after the tumble he took off of Bo the Breaker’s shoulders earlier. She tightens her grip around him without thinking, all too aware of the cart rumbling beneath their feet as the circus trundles down yet another nameless dirt path that reminds Yasha nothing of home.

“Yes, yes,” he says breezily. “You’re big and tough and untouchable. But you’ve never done any drugs with  _me,_ darling. That makes all the difference.”

“Oh, yeah?” She gives up on trying to hide her small grin, an occurrence that has become alarmingly frequent over the past several months with this odd little circus and even odder tiefling. “And how many times have you done this, exactly?”

“Once,” Molly says unabashedly, perhaps even proudly. “Or maybe twice, but Bo keeps saying I was more stoned than high that time.” He winks and squeezes her hand. “So? Do you feel anything now??”

She scoffs. Moonlight glints off the sharp points of his teeth and the deep red of his eyes, and he would look almost sinister to anyone who didn’t actually know him.  _Mollymauk Tealeaf._ He certainly wasn’t what she expected, when she arrived in the Empire with nothing but the blood in her veins.  _Less_  than nothing.

“I certainly feel something, all right,” she says softly.

Her heart is light in a way that it never is. Maybe those herbs are doing something to her despite what she said.

Then Molly lets go of her hand and wraps his arms around her waist instead, and Yasha is musing at the idea that he is the only one she knows, now, whom she’d let hug her like this, until Molly tightens his hold, straining, and Yasha begins to suspect that this is  _not_ , in fact, a hug at all.

“What are you doing?” she asks, mildly.

“I’m—gonna lift you high,” he grits. “Like Bo—did for me. It’s what friends are for.”

“Molly,” she laughs, “you can’t lift me.”

But then, impossibly, miraculously, the heels of Yasha’s feet rise half an inch off the floor of the cart. Yasha is impressed, just in time for the cart to hit a nasty bump in the road, sending the both of them tumbling down into the dirt.

“ _We’re not stopping for you again,_ ” Gustav yells from his horse, even as absolutely no one takes him seriously.

Yasha is shaking with silent laughter and, yeah,  _yeah_ , maybe she does feel something, after all. Uncharacteristically, Molly beneath her isn’t laughing, and that surprises her so much she gets worried that her weight is crushing his windpipe, so she quickly rolls off of him and they both lie there on their backs with a tapestry of stars spread out above their heads. In the distant background, she can hear Desmond grumbling and one of the carts coming to a halt, waiting for them.

Molly is grinning at her, wide, bright.

“I told you I’d send us flying,” he says, happy and warm. “See? You can count on me, dear.”

“I believe you,” murmurs Yasha, and just this once she lets her smile grow freely.


	2. For Always (Jester/Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Jester + "things you said after you kissed me"

“Oh,” Beau says, slightly dazed after Jester finally pulls away. She looks goofy with a bit of Jester’s lipstick smeared on the corner of her mouth. “What was that for?”

“Why does it have to be  _for_ something?” Jester rolls her eyes. “It’s not, like, a ‘Good job!’ sticker or a cookie or something.” She pauses to consider. “Actually, cookies shouldn’t have to be for specific stuff, either. They’re just for always, you know?”

“No, I mean—” Beau shakes her head, as if to clear it. She touches a hand to Jester’s cheek. “You’re right, yeah. I just wanted to know the cause, so it could, maybe, happen again?”

Jester leans forward, and kisses her again. Gentler, this time.

Beau is back to looking dazed and goofy.

“I just thought you looked really cute today, that’s all,” Jester answers her question. “But don’t worry. I can kiss you even when you look super gross, if you want.”

“In that case,” says Beau, breaking into a dopey grin, “do I look super gross right now?”

“Super fucking gross,” she lies, and leans in one more time.

 


	3. Talk (Fjord & Molly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Fjord and Molly + "things you didn't say at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be read as shippy or not, but Fjord/Molly is my personal favourite M/M ship for this campaign, so...

Fjord still remembers sleeping in the crew cabin on the ship, hammocks and clamor and bedrolls on the always damp floor. It reminded him a bit too much of growing up in the orphanages, friction and too many bodies with no room to breathe. Then he rose the ranks and Vandren gave him his own private quarters, and sometimes when the sea was too still and he was too exhausted to sleep, he missed the noise of sleeping elbow to elbow with a dozen other sailors. 

Mostly, though, mostly he preferred the quiet and the privacy.

Mollymauk is different right off the bat, from that very first night he makes Fjord buy him a drink and then not-so-subtly invites himself into his room. Mollymauk is not quiet, not at all, but he respects Fjord’s privacy, a fact that surprises Fjord every time he’s reminded of it.

The thing is, Fjord is used to sharing a room, but he’s not used to having a roommate.

Molly spends most of the day talking: trading barbs with Beau, telling stories to Jester, needling Nott and Caleb. Trying, and often failing, to charm strangers, forcing Fjord to slide in to smooth things over. But when they all turn in for the night, Fjord watches Molly settle into a different key. He still talks, sometimes, idly commenting on the events of the day or teasing Fjord about the way Jester looked at him before she tugged Beau into their room with a suspicious giggle, but it feels different somehow when Fjord is the only member of his audience.

(Probably it only feels different for Fjord, while Molly is simply carrying on business as usual.)

And sometimes Molly doesn’t talk much at all, just hums a small off-key tune to himself and folds his ridiculous coat very carefully over a chair, collapses onto his mattress and shuts his eyes. He almost always sleeps flat on his back, but never before he gets a chance to say a warm, easy, “Good night, Fjord,” followed by a slightly more mischievous, “Sleep well.”

Then Fjord says it back, and they are both quiet for the night.

The thing is, Molly is always  _there_ , but he doesn’t ask Fjord a hundred questions when Fjord sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, breathing heavy from the terrible, mundane kinds of nightmares that don’t make him heave seawater or swallow swords. Molly will ask calmly, one time, if Fjord is okay, and when he says yes, Molly will drop it. Sometimes he silently, airily fetches Fjord a mug of cool water, before flopping back into his own bed without waiting for a thank-you.

Fjord swallows the water and settles his heartbeat and wonders, not for the first time, what Molly is thinking. He sleeps three feet across from this same person almost every night, and he has no idea what Molly thinks about before he goes to sleep, what kinds of dreams he has if he has any, whether he ever wonders anything in turn about Fjord or if he really dozes off as easily as he always appears to.

Fjord puts the mug down on the floor and turns around, pulling the scratchy wool blanket up to his shoulders. When the sun rises, Molly stretches across the room and drawls, “Morning, darling,” and Fjord turns to him and says, “Good morning,” back.


	4. Brim (Caleb & Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Caleb and Beau + "things you said through your teeth."

She doesn’t know why the fuck she says it. In the morning she’ll blame it on drink, like she does with so many things that she means more than she’s willing to admit.

Caleb’s shoulders stay loose and relaxed in a way that tells her he definitely didn’t hear her. A tankard is still held too loose in his fingers, and Beau watches and waits for the ale to spill or for the whole thing to come crashing down, but it never does. She doesn’t move to try to help him grip it more securely. She’s still waiting.

“Hmm?” he says drowsily, half paying attention. He only gets like this—pleasant, fuzzier around the edges, a fraction closer to  _unguarded—_ after a copious amount of alcohol, and Beau supposes that’s one more thing the two of them have in common, the Empire kids. “I’m sorry, Beauregard. What did you say?”

If she didn’t know why she said it the first time, then she absolutely shouldn’t repeat it for him to hear. See, Beau and Caleb, they’re assholes. That is one of the few things on which they are in utter agreement. Maybe they do good things now, maybe they try to  _keep_ each other doing good things (for the sake of their friends, the fallen, their souls), but that is not the same as  _being_ good. As  _warranting_ good.

The words tumble out against the brim of her glass, as tangled and unfamiliar as the first time:

“You deserve to be happy.”

This time he hears her.

She expects him to darken, to flinch or laugh shakily as his shoulders either slump or stiffen, like she’s seen him do on so many occasions before. But tonight, he only blinks in a tired, bleary way, the blue of his eyes melted for this one moment, for her.

He slings an arm over her shoulders, bones always too sharp.

“You as well, my friend,” he says.


	5. Shaken (Beau/Yasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> walkthegale requested Beau and Yasha + "things you said when you were scared."

Beau tries to leave just as Yasha is coming back.

They run into each other, almost literally, at the entrance to the Leaky Tap. The night outside is dark as ink, the tavern inside empty and still. Yasha looks her up and down, and Beau grits her teeth because she knows how obvious it all looks: travelling cloak crooked over her shoulders, a heavy rucksack slung across her back, eyes rimmed red and wild. Unsteady on her feet and even drunker than she normally would be at this time of night.

“Going somewhere?” says Yasha finally.

“Taking a leaf out of your book,” Beau retorts. “Or a flower, in your case.”

Yasha only folds her arms, and just this once Beau wishes she wasn’t so  _big_. She blocks the entire doorway without even trying.

“I never thought you were the type,” Yasha says lightly. “Does Jester know?”

Beau stays silent.

“She’s going to be very upset.”

“Hey,” she snaps, “you don’t have a fucking monopoly on bailing abruptly in the middle of the night, all right?”

Yasha doesn’t flinch at her outburst, barely reacts at all. Heat rises in Beau’s neck and she wishes bitterly, wildly, that for _once_ something she did could get a rise out of Yasha, ruffle her even a little bit one way or the other. Instead there she stands like always, right in front of her but completely fucking untouchable.

Beau’s hands are still shaking. She’s pretty sure she’s not making any sense.

“I know I don’t,” Yasha is saying, looking straight at her. “But you just aren’t the type.”

“You said that already. The type to  _what?_ ”

“To leave,” she says, simple as anything.

Beau snorts. “You must be worse at reading people than I thought.”

Yasha doesn’t argue with that. Just keeps standing there with her arms crossed, eyes boring into her.

She tries to shoulder past her, but Yasha doesn’t budge. Breath hisses through her teeth in frustration. Even so, her next words come out more desperate than angry.

“I’ll—I’ll come back, okay? So please, just… let me through.” Her voice quivers, stumbles over the word  _please_ , and she hates it, so much.

“Whatever it is,” Yasha says, and in that moment Beau also hates Yasha’s voice, hates how softit is, “I’m sure the group can help you figure it out. You don’t have to run, not like this.”

“You don’t fucking get it,” she spits. Because Yasha doesn’t, she really, really doesn’t. Yasha radiates power and rage and determination, and every time she leaves Beau is sure she’s running  _toward_ something, to something greater. Not like Beau, who has only ever known how to run away.

Beau reaches blindly into her pocket and flings the crumpled letter at Yasha’s chest, the one she didn’t even finish reading because its contents don’t matter, all that matters is the address on the envelope that tells Beau that he fucking knows where she is. A small part in the rational corner of Beau’s mind understands that  _this_ , this, sneaking away from the only people who’ve ever cared about her in the dead of night, is pretty much the worst response to the situation, but recognizing irrational actions has never stopped her from doing them.

The last time a letter like this, a letter from her  _father_ (and after all this time, she still chokes around that word) found its way into her hands, she ran away from the Cobalt Soul. But she found her way back to them, eventually. She tells herself she’ll do the same for the Mighty Nein. For now, though, for now she can hear the thud of her own heartbeat in her ears, her hands still won’t stop shaking, and she doesn’t want to fucking deal with any of it.

Yasha doesn’t uncross her arms to catch the letter like Beau expected she would. Instead it bounces off of her elbow and drops to the six inches of floor space between their feet. On inexplicable instinct, Beau bends over to try to grab it, only to trip and fall forward because she’s even more fucked-up-drunk than she’d thought.

Yasha doesn’t catch her. 

For the first time it hits Beau that maybe Yasha is something other than infuriatingly calm tonight.

Yasha always, always catches her.

Beau sits dazed on her ass for a good five seconds before Yasha finally unfreezes. She kneels down to Beau’s side and touches her shoulder, eyes widening.

“Shit,” she mutters. “Shit, Beau, are you all right?”

“’M fine.” The stupid letter lies forgotten somewhere beneath them, turning soggy from the damp floor. “Just drunk, is all. Slipped.”

“You’ve stopped shaking.”

“And you’ve started,” she points out, because it’s true. Yasha’s hand is trembling ever so slightly, so subtly that Beau wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t currently pressed against the skin of her shoulder. But she does notice, and it cleaves through some of the raw panic that had been taking root in her gut since she saw her father’s handwriting.

She begins to suspect that Yasha’s eerie stillness was never a testament to her composure at all.

“Don’t go,” Yasha says quietly, so that Beau almost doesn’t hear it.

Her hand on Beau’s shoulder is a hard grip now, tight enough to bruise.

Beau just blinks. “What?”

“I know I’m being unfair,” murmurs Yasha, not looking at her face. “I know. But I just—I think I always assumed that whenever I came back, you would still be here, waiting for me.” A tinge of pink touches her cheeks, like a lightning strike, like a revelation.

Breath and words catch in Beau’s throat.

A charged, unbearable moment, and Yasha adds, lamely, “The group, I mean. I thought the group would be here waiting.”

The half-admission hangs fragile in the air between them and just like that, it’s as if the woman who’s stolen Beau’s breath and words and poise away since the moment they met has stolen her fear now, too—or maybe it would be more accurate to say that Beau is giving it all to her, taking herself slowly apart piece by piece and laying it all ugly and bare at Yasha’s feet and into the gaps between the fingers that are still squeezing Beau’s shoulder, until all that’s left is the steadied thud, thud, thud of her heart and the faint pink in Yasha’s face. 

When Yasha finally meets her gaze again, all Beau can do is lift a hand, and squeeze back, and wait.


	6. For Now (Molly/Caleb)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> caduceus-clay-m9 requested Molly and Caleb + "things you didn't say at all."

They haven’t even had sex yet, but sometimes Molly stays the night, and in the morning Caleb makes toast and Nott narrows her eyes at Molly from across the breakfast table and Molly grins at her with all his teeth and says, “Would you pass the milk, dear?”

“You can reach it,” she responds primly.

So Molly stands up and walks all the way around the perimeter of the table to make a point. He has to scoot past Caleb crouched over the toaster because their kitchen/dining room is  _so small_ , and since it’s en route he touches his hand feather-light to Caleb’s shoulder and drops an idle kiss on the back of his head.

Nott makes a funny little  _hmph_ sound as Molly airily picks up the milk jug sitting by her elbow. He feels like he can hear Caleb smile at their stand-off. He likes to think that it’s his sixth sense, that he can feel the shape of Caleb’s smile from ten city blocks away, probably.

Molly lopes back to his seat, immensely satisfied.

Caleb sets a platter of slightly burnt toast in front of them and they all enjoy a quiet, pleasant breakfast and everything is horrifyingly, delightfully domestic. Molly doesn’t ask how slow did Caleb mean when he said, “Let’s take it slow,” and Caleb doesn’t ask if Molly is sick of him yet, and Nott doesn’t threaten to slash Molly’s tires or send his weed to “the po-po.”

When Molly puts on his coat to leave, all Caleb says is, “I will see you tomorrow, ja?” and then he kisses him on the cheek.

On his way out, Yasha texts him,  _so how was your night ;)_  and Molly chokes on a laugh because a winky-face from Yasha is nine flavours of Very Weird.

 _Good,_ he texts back, and steps out into the morning light.


	7. Ridiculous (Beau/Yasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Beau and Yasha + "things you said when you were crying."

When Yasha wakes from her jumbled, suffocating dreams, she never bolts upright gasping for breath or heaving seawater from her lungs. Her eyes fly open, her hand clenching into a fist at her side, and then she lies very still and listens to the thunderclouds in the distance—there are almost always thunderclouds somewhere, when she dreams—until her fingers finally, eventually relax. Sometimes, her breath stutters, but that’s it. It’s not very dramatic, so almost no one ever notices, not in the circus or in the Mighty Nein, and that’s how she prefers it.

Molly noticed, once. But Molly’s gone. The reminder makes her fist clench tighter, makes her work twice as hard to focus on the faraway sounds of rumbling thunder, the wind picking up, leaves ripping from their branches—the assurance that soon rain will fall and flowers will grow and life will go on—

“Hey. You okay?”

Yasha’s eyes open. She hadn’t realized they’d fallen closed again. She’s greeted by the familiar sight of an incredibly stupid-looking pair of goggles and, behind them, bright eyes brimming with—with concern, maybe. That hurts too much to admit, though, so Yasha prefers to think of it as curiosity, instead. Curiosity that brought Beauregard to crouch by Yasha’s bedroll, her frown and furrowed brow backlit by the dying campfire.

Yasha finds her voice. “I’m fine. Is it my turn for watch?”

“No, no. It’s just, I heard you—”  Beau pauses, deepens her frown. She’s good at that. “Hey. You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not,” is her immediate response. She doesn’t cry. She’s long lost that luxury.

“Yeah, you kinda are, look—” Beau reaches out like she’s about to touch Yasha’s cheek, which is, yes, damp with  _something._ She wisely thinks better of it, though, and lets her hand drop to the ground instead, fidgeting with one of her bootlaces.

“Must be the rain,” Yasha says flatly. She sits up, not liking the angle of Beau being above her, and resists the urge to immediately wipe her face of the wetness. That would only encourage Beau’s ludicrous theory.

Beau fixes her with a long, inscrutable look. Yasha recognizes the flimsiness of her own lie: the night sky above them is bright and clear, the incoming storm still miles and miles away. She’s not sure if Caleb’s strange dome spell would even allow any raindrops in.

“Right,” Beau says finally. “Yeah. Must be.” There’s no trace of sarcasm in her voice, for once.

Something fragile unspools inside Yasha’s ribcage. The Cobalt Soul monk, leaving something be. As unthinkable as a dire wolf letting go of a bloodied prey.

“Sorry if I—sorry if the rain woke you,” mutters Yasha.

“Nah. I was already up anyway. Couldn’t sleep.”

The bits of gunk still hanging from the corner of Beau’s eye seem to suggest otherwise. Yasha doesn’t push. It seems only fair, after all; a lie for a lie.

“But, like, listen,” Beau is saying, abrupt as lightning. “You can talk to me or wake me up or whatever, if you ever want to. You know, if you feel like it might… rain again. I don’t mind.”

Yasha stares at her for so long that she sees Beau get skittish, her shoulders tensing in a way like she wants to reach for a flask that’s not there. She doesn’t lower her gaze, though, just stares determinedly back at Yasha from behind those goggles that make her look a little too much like her new owl companion. Absolutely ridiculous. Yet—

“I will keep that in mind,” Yasha says, soft, timed perfectly with a distant rumble of thunder that very nearly drowns her out. “Thank you, Beau.”

Beau grins, and it’s like a storm breaking open, making way for starlight, for a gentler rainfall. “Anytime. Literally.”


	8. Not Her (Fjord/Jester/Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Fjorestgard + "doesn't realize they've been injured."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a string of [Whump Fic Bingo](http://halfgap.tumblr.com/post/179697346065/im-tipsy-and-in-the-mood-for-some-angst-and) prompt fills, mostly centered on hurt/comfort. I'm still accepting requests over at Tumblr as well but I might take a while to finish them off. 
> 
> Also this is my niche but much beloved OT3 and all I want is more content for them.

Another close call.

They’d had too many of those lately. But he didn’t say that out loud. Fjord hadn’t always been blessed with the gift of tact; it was a skill like anything else, something he honed as a scared, quick-thinking kid, when he realized his words were a safer bet than his fists.

Apparently Beau had never bothered to develop that particular skill in the same way.

“Splitting the party,” she drawled with a grimace, cradling her wrist after the last ogre fell. “That’s always a great fucking idea, huh?”

Fjord felt a small, reflexive stab of annoyance at the remark, but Jester just laughed like she always did at their friend’s prickly wisecracks. His own irritation melted into fondness as Jester knelt to fuss over Beau’s broken hand.

Jester turned to him next, her bright smile as always edging out the shadows of his fatigue, his anxiety.

“What about you, Fjord?” she chirped. “Did you get hit like a dumbass, too?”

“Fuck off,” Beau said without heat.

“You can tell me, you know,” Jester said, ignoring her, shooting out a hand to brush a stray lock of his hair off his forehead. Her hand was blissfully cool. “I am  _the_ healer, you know. Tell Dr. Jester what’s wrong!”

He smiled. “I’m okay, actually. But thank you, Jes. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, good,” she said, with genuine relief. “Because I actually used my last spell on Beau. So it is really good you’re not hurt after all.”

“So much for Dr. Jester,” Beau muttered, but it came out gentle. She bumped her forehead lightly against Jester’s shoulder, a fond little gesture as her version of  _thanks for healing me._

Jester stumbled. Her hand on Fjord’s forehead fell to his shoulder in a hard grip, scrabbling for support.

Beau jerked back in alarm. Fjord immediately put his hands on Jester’s waist to steady her.

“Fuck,” said Beau, “fuck, Jes, what happened, I’m sorry—”

Fjord moved one of his hands to Jester’s still on his shoulder. It was cold, cold even for Jester, and now that he was holding it he could feel it shaking.

“Jester,” he said, calmly as he could, “Jes, hey, are you all right?”

“What?” she said, blinking, her hand flipping over to squeeze his. “I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.”

“Guys,” said Beau. Her voice was trembling.

Fjord’s gaze dropped to where Beau was pointing. Jester’s torso, her dress beginning to darken with a growing pool of blood.

“Oh,” Jester said in mild surprise. “Huh. Weird.”

Then she sagged, Fjord going down with her, falling to the ground and pulling Jester against his chest, on his lap. His hand scrabbled against her stomach, sticky warmth against his fingers and someone was saying, “Hey, hey, Jes—don’t worry, now, you’re gonna be okay, we’ll make sure you’re okay—” and he didn’t realize it was him until much later.

Beau was knelt down to their level, slapping his hand away, cutting open Jester’s dress with steely determination, not bothering to hold Jester’s hands because he was already gripping both of them tight as he could, and when her wild eyes met his for the briefest of seconds, his own desperation mirrored in her face, he knew they were on the same wavelength, as they so often, implausibly were—

_No. We’re not gonna lose her. Anyone but her._


	9. Withdrawal (Nott & Jester)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Nott and Jester + the prompt "addiction/withdrawal."

At first, Nott was almost fooled into thinking that this was gonna be okay.

It was just her, Fjord, Jester, and a shitton of trees. No Endless Flask, none of the others in sight, no taverns or breweries. And Fjord had said—

“You know, Nott, maybe this is a chance to turn over a new leaf. Maybe you won’t even need your flask, after this.”

“Shut up, Fjord,” she’d said, huffing, but secretly kind of being thrilled by the idea. For a long time, whisky had been the one solace of her life, but now, the thought of being Nott,  _comma_ , the Brave, without anything helping her, just all the goodness coming from  _within_ or whatever—it gave her a warm kind of buzz, the same that cheap drink did. Harsh and heady and sweet. Never mind that the light of the sun, the feel of Jester’s hand in hers, the sound of Fjord’s low laugh, were all too  _sharp_ and too  _here_ without that familiar buzz there to dull the edges and make being alive and present almost bearable.

Then Nott was puking her guts out behind a bush. It burned her throat. Her eyes, too, but maybe that was just because she was crying. Why the fuck was she crying?

“This ain’t gonna be pretty,” she could hear Fjord muttering in the distance. “How many years do you think it’s been, y’know, since she’s been sober?”

Jester shushed him.

A few hours later, she was as close to the campfire as she could get without the flames actually charring her skin. She couldn’t stop shaking. She missed Caleb. Caleb could make a better fire, a bigger one, a fire that was actually warm, that could actually make her feel not-cold and closer to sane, probably.

The thing was, she was _so_ cold, and she couldn’t stop shaking and that was why she was near the fire, but Jester was placing her too-cool palm on Nott’s forehead and saying, “Nott, you are very hot. I mean, you’re always very hot, you’re beautiful, but you’re burning up.”

“I miss Caleb,” she said miserably. How could Jester call her  _hot,_ when she felt like this? “Fjord—Fjord must not know how to build a fucking fire.”

Jester didn’t respond to that, even though Nott was kind of trying to get a rise out of her. Instead she just pulled Nott into her chest, held her even as Nott shook so much she felt like her bones might fly apart and jab Jester in the eye.

“Tell me if you are going to barf again, okay,” said Jester. “Although I won’t be mad if you do barf on my dress, even if that’d be super gross. But, like, I won’t be mad.”

Nott shook, and Jester held her closer and pressed her lips against Nott’s hair, and Nott had always been keenly aware of how  _small_ she was, of how many things in this world could crush her without a thought, but this was the first time that feeling small almost felt kind of nice, because it meant Jester could hold more of her in her arms, her warmth, even as none of it could really reach Nott.

“I need Caleb,” Nott whispered. “I need a drink. Will you be mad at me if I drink, when we get back to the city?”

“Of course not,” said Jester without hesitation, her mouth moving against Nott’s hair. “I will be here if you want to drink again, Nott. I’ll be here if you don’t drink again. I’ll be here if you keep shaking and being cold and sad for another day or week or year, or if you barf ten times on my dress.” She paused. “I might have to leave for a little bit to change my clothes if you barf eleven times, though.”

It didn’t make Nott feel any less on edge, or any warmer, or any closer to sleep. But her long fingers clutched tightly at Jester’s sleeve, and Jester rocked her and sang something that Nott distantly remembered her mentioning was a lullaby Jester’s mom once taught to her, and Nott looked into the fire and didn’t puke, yet, on Jester’s dress. That was something.


	10. Bye (Beau/Yasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Beau/Yasha + the prompt "voice breaking."

Beau rolls over in bed, and even in the darkness of the room she can see Yasha’s massive form, standing, facing the window.

“You could at least say goodbye,” she croaks, before she can think better of it.

Yasha turns to look at her. It’s too dark to read her face.

Then she bends over and brushes her mouth feather-soft against Beau’s brow.

“Bye,” she murmurs.

“Cool,” says Beau, and she means for it to come out suave, flippant, but the syllable bursts somewhere in her throat. Wobbles and falls apart, like she’s choking back tears, like a  _child_.

_What will it take_ , she doesn’t say.  _What will it take for me to be enough? For you to stay?_

Yasha hovers there, stuck, and Beau is thankful there’s no storm tonight, no sudden burst of lightning to illuminate her face. She doesn’t want to see what’s there.

This is what matters—

Warm, callused fingers, pressed firm, achingly gentle, against Beau’s jaw. Tracing the shell of her ear.

Then Yasha is gone. Beau flips over, breathes out.


	11. Cleric (Jester & Caleb & Nott)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twinvax requested Jester with Nott and/or Caleb + the prompt "Crisis Catch And Carry."

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

A wizard, a rogue, and a cleric face down an angry frost giant. The wizard is scared, the rogue is drunk, and the frost giant is  _big._

All that’s left, of course, is the cleric.

All that’s left is Jester. It’s always Jester.

Caleb was scared, and Nott was drunk, but now both their eyes are shut and Caleb is slung over Jester’s shoulder and Nott is cradled against Jester’s chest, and Jester runs. The image would almost be comical—scratch that, would  _definitely_ be comical, the Traveler is probably losing it, the dick—if it didn’t feel like every muscle in Jester’s body was trembling, threatening to fold inward and split apart. If her heartbeat wasn’t thudding in her ears, her too-sharp teeth digging into her lower lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood, reminding her that she was still alive, still  _strong_ enough for this, for them.

She turns her head to allow herself the briefest comfort, to press her cheek against the worn fabric of Caleb’s coat, thankful that he’s been bathing so much more often now. She shifts her left arm to squeeze Nott tighter against her chest, to make extra sure she won’t slip through the cracks as Jester runs, runs, runs. She just needs to get to Fjord, she thinks. To Beau, to Yasha. To her strong people, the ones who protect her. To Caduceus, the one who takes care of her, of them.

Until then, all that’s left is  _this_ cleric. All that’s left is Jester.


	12. Panic (Nott & Caduceus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Nott and Caduceus stuck somewhere with the prompts "black eye" and "tears of fear."

It’s always the godsdamn water.

“We’re gonna die here,” Nott says, feeling the sand between her toes. Trying hard not to look at the wreckage of their little dinghy, at the green sea surrounding them on all sides.  _Water_. “They’re not going to come for us. And we’re gonna die here.”

Caduceus folds his long body into a sitting position beside Nott, dangling his arms over his knees instead of trying to touch her to calm her down.  _Good_ , she thinks. She thinks she might bite the hand off of anyone who tries to touch her right now.

Her face hurts, twinges with stabby little aches every time she moves her mouth, to frown, to speak, to gulp from her flask. Her lip is cut up and her cheek feels heavy, hard. She’d gotten too used to staying far away from the violence. She wonders how she used to deal with this every day, back with the clan. How Beau always walks around like this with a grin, blood lining the gaps between her teeth. It makes Nott feel tiny, crushed, hopeless.

Maybe that’s just the water again. Fuck the water.

“Why wouldn’t they come for us?” Caduceus is saying, cocking his head at her. “They’re your friends, you keep saying. Mine, too. Coming for each other seems to be kind of your thing, from what I’ve seen of this group.”

“I don’t know!” snaps Nott. “Maybe they’ll try, then, but they won’t be able to find us, we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere with no food or drinkable water, just lots and lots of the kind that will  _kill_  you.” She hugs her knees to her chest, drops her forehead to them even though everything still  _hurts_. “What the fuck are the two of  _us_  supposed to do?”

Caduceus is silent, mulling over his words probably. He spends more time on his words than anybody Nott’s ever met.

She takes a long, shuddery breath. Her throat feels hot and lumpy and terrible.

“What if he doesn’t come back for me?” she whispers.

Silence.

“I’m going to hug you now,” says Caduceus.

And he does, enveloping her like a warm fuzzy blanket. She doesn’t bite off his hand.

She buries her face into his chest instead, smearing snot and tears all over the soft fabric. She’s sobbing, panicking, choking on her breaths; she didn’t realize. Nott the fuckin’ brave indeed.

“Caleb will do everything in his power to find you,” Caduceus says, in his quiet, certain way. “And that is a considerable amount of power. He is a very smart man. Tomorrow Jester will use her spell to contact us, and I’ll use my spells to fix this”—he pats her shoulder gently, and she doesn’t know if he’s talking about her bruises or her tears or both—“and everything will be just great. We just need to sit tight until then.”

Nott pushes her face a little harder into his chest. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.

“Shut up, Deuce,” she mutters.


	13. Mutuality (Beau/Yasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> der--klappstuhl requested Beau/Yasha + "hiding an injury."

Beau’s jaw finally, visibly relaxes, after having been clenched tight for the past ten minutes. Yasha moves her hand away, still feeling the slope of Beau’s shoulder on her palm, her warmth seared into her like a brand. She tells herself it’s an aftereffect of the healing magic, but a part of her knows better by now.

Beau grins up at her, all bright, open gratitude and affection. “Thanks, Yash,” she says. “I owe you one. That spear really got into me, huh?”

A stray lock of hair has come loose from Beau’s topknot, falling into her eyes. Yasha fights off the absurd impulse to reach out a hand, brush it back.

“Yes,” she says instead, flat. “You should be more careful next time.”

Beau shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a monk and should be better at dodging and all that.” She kneads her knuckles across her newly healed shoulder, testing it out. Shoots Yasha a significant look that Yasha can’t decipher. “But we can’t all be as badass as you, y’know? Like, you always get right in their faces but it’s still like none of their crap ever even grazes you.”

At her words, the long but shallow gash across Yasha’s left side throbs in painful reminder of one of the many ‘grazes’ that slipped past Yasha’s nonexistent defenses. There’s no way Beau can know that, though. So Yasha nods, stiff, letting another one of Beau’s unjustified compliments bounce off of her like a pebble.

“It’s just,” Beau continues, uncharacteristically soft, “you’re amazing.”

Yasha almost blushes. Almost. But then she notices how Beau’s eyes had changed as she spoke; where they had been all easy, guileless affection moments prior, they’re back to hard, piercing cobalt now, clear and knifelike. Those eyes had always been something that both charmed and unsettled Yasha when they first met, one of the only indications in Beau’s appearance that she was so much more than a bored, flirty delinquent.

 _This girl._ She puts Yasha on edge just as much as she draws her in.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Beau says, still soft, as though reading Yasha’s mind. “And your poker face isn’t nearly as good as you think.”

Yasha freezes, tears her gaze away from Beau’s eyes, her lips.  _Does she know?_  “I’m not—”

Beau interrupts her by touching a hand to Yasha’s wrist, dropping her gaze to Yasha’s torso, aching behind her leathers. “You should see Deuce. You might think you can grit your teeth through it, do your tough guardian act, whatever—but you should see Deuce.”

Yasha’s gaze flickers from Beau’s hand still on her skin, to her mouth set in a small frown, to her sharp eyes, a little softer now but no longer looking at Yasha. The stray lock of hair is still there, in her way.

Yasha reaches out this time, smooths it back, tucks it behind Beau’s ear. 

She leans closer. Beau is staring back at her now, wide-eyed and still.

“I can take care of myself,” Yasha says, and pulls away. She gets to her feet. Leaves to find Caduceus.


	14. Always Do (Fjord/Molly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Molly + "blood from the mouth." To me, that apparently translates into "sweet but moody moment between Modern AU Fjord/Molly."

It’s 3 a.m. when Molly finally bursts through the front door of the apartment, belting out a mangled version of “Auld Lang Syne” and trying to kick off his boots in the pitch black of the hallway. The song cuts off with a loud curse and a  _thud,_ as he crashes into the plastic shoe rack like he does every night.

Fjord listens to the ruckus from his place on the couch, laptop warm on his knees. The sounds of Molly coming home are as familiar to him by now as his own heartbeat. He takes pity eventually and lopes over to switch on the hallway light. Fjord leans against the wall, arms folded, trying his very best to look stern when Molly blearily blinks up at him from the floor, face breaking into a bright grin when his eyes focus on Fjord’s own.

Fjord’s heart would normally soften at the pure delight on his roommate’s face upon seeing him, but Molly’s smile isn’t nearly as pretty when his lip is busted and there’s blood smeared all across his front teeth.

“You waited up for me,” says Molly. A line of blood dribbles down his chin.

“You didn’t exactly try to keep quiet coming in now, did you?”

“Well,” says Molly with a shrug, “I knew you would wait up for me. You always do.”

Fjord sighs. He crouches down to Molly’s level, reaches out a hand to cup his jaw as gently as he can. Molly doesn’t flinch.

“Now, what happened here?” Fjord says, still trying to sound stern, but squishy concern bubbles up from his chest and spills into his voice. _Dammit_.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, darling.” Molly waves an airy hand, settles it across Fjord’s still cupping his face. He guides Fjord’s hand closer to his mouth, presses a clumsy kiss to his knuckles, leaving a messy smear of blood and lipstick. “Just a silly little scuffle.”

Fjord’s brow furrows. “In the bar or in the streets? Did you go out with Beau again?”

“Now,” says Molly, grinning wickedly, “that’s a trick question, isn’t it? If I say in the bar with Beau, you’ll get mad I went out with her. If I say I got jumped in the streets  _without_  Beau, you’ll get mad she wasn’t there to protect fragile little me.”

“Well, which is it?” Fjord says steadily. “I won’t be mad. I know you’re not fragile.”

But the streets at night can be dangerous for people like Mollymauk, and as much as a shit-starter Beau is, Fjord trusts her, and he knows any fight some jackass might start with Molly would be a little more fair with Beau around. He keeps that to himself, though. He said he wouldn’t be mad, after all.

In the end, Molly just winks. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” he says, words slurring at the end. He dips his head forward, leaning his face a little deeper into Fjord’s palm. Fjord had forgotten, at some point, to move his hand away.

“All right,” he says gently. “All right. Come on, bud. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

Molly hums in sleepy agreement, but still for a while neither of them move from the hallway. The dim yellow ceiling light flickers above them as they sit together, Molly’s warmth cupped in Fjord’s palm, safe for the time being.


	15. Rest (Fjord/Jester/Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested Fjord/Jester/Beau + the prompt "worked themselves to exhaustion."

Okay, Fjord had fucked-up dreams sometimes, sure, ones that left him boneless, paralyzed, unable to breathe. But he wasn’t  _avoiding_ them. That would be completely damn irrational, wouldn’t it? It was just that college was  _hard_ , and he had a lot of work to struggle through. So much work that he couldn’t even keep up with it, that sometimes his vision would suddenly come into sharp focus while he was sitting at his too-small desk in his dingy apartment, and he felt like he was drowning in it all.

“Fjord,” a voice was saying. “Fjord,  _Fjord,_ you jackass, you need to sleep.”

And then it was like his consciousness swam through a hazy fog and slammed right back into his body, his surroundings crystallizing around him. That’d been happening a lot, ever since he stopped closing his eyes for more than sixty seconds at a time.  _Totally normal,_ he told himself _._  Everything was fine.

He blinked. Jester was in his room, glaring.

“Fjord,” she said again. “Oh my god. You are going to  _literally die_ , do you get that??”

“Now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “that’s a little melodramatic, isn’t it?” He rubbed his eyes, realized what he was doing, and stopped. “I survived working 65 hours a week at the docks; a molecular biology textbook isn’t gonna do me in.”

“Does your molecular biology course tell you what SLEEP DEPRIVATION does to your body?”

“Must’ve missed that class.”

Jester’s glare melted into a pout, which in turn shifted frighteningly fast into a sweet, dangerous smile. “Okay, fine. At least come to the kitchen and eat some of the cookies I baked. Please, Fjord?”

An automatic  _no_ rose to his tongue. But as was frequently the case with Jester, the word got lost somewhere on the way out of his mouth. He sighed.

“Fine. Cookies would be nice.” He stood up from his desk, took a step toward the door.

“Beau!” yelled Jester. “ _Now!_ ”

... _shit._

Out of nowhere, a heavy, brown bundle of ropey muscles and sharp angles was tackling him, shoving him right onto his mattress. His world spun, the wind knocked out of him.

“ _Jesus!_ Guys, what the fuck?? _”_ At least, Fjord was pretty sure that was what he yelled. He hoped he did. His voice felt oddly disconnected from his body.  _Fuck sleep deprivation._

He blinked at the ceiling, his side stinging from where Beau’s elbow had jabbed into his ribs. She was sitting on his shins now, looking inordinately pleased with herself.

“Should’ve surrendered willingly, man,” she said with a shrug.

Before he could kick Beau away, Jester’s soft, warm, considerable weight was on his chest, her head tucked into his neck. Her hair smelled like cookie dough and those mango candles she liked so much.

“You’re trapped now,” she said brightly. “Whatever shall you do, with a soft pillow under your head, a gorgeous girl cuddled against your chest, and—umm, Beau here pinning your legs down? …Shit, man, how do you fit into the smut novel scene?”

“This was  _your_  plan,” Beau protested.

Jester propped herself up, and blew Beau a kiss. “I know. And I’m very grateful!”

“You two can’t stay here forever,” Fjord grumbled, trying to pretend his eyes weren’t already drooping, to ignore how nice it felt to just finally  _be horizontal._

“I’m comfy right here,” said Jester. “Comfy enough to take a  _long_ nap.”

“And I’m gonna meditate,” Beau said very seriously, arranging herself into a cross-legged sitting position atop Fjord’s legs.

“You can’t meditate for more than six minutes.”

“…Valid.” She pulled out something from her pocket. “But Jes lent me her DS for this and I’m gonna play the shit out of  _Animal Crossing_ _._ So fuck you too.”

Fjord heaved a big sigh, causing Jester to snuggle closer into his neck, her nose nudging his throat. He could tell without looking that she was grinning brighter than the damn sun.

“You guys suck,” he said. But they’d already won, he knew. His eyes fluttered shut. “Three hours.”

“More like nine,” Jester said easily, at the same time as Beau drawled, “You’re not exactly in the position to bargain, dude.”

He couldn’t come up with a retort for either of them; the fog in his head was already overtaking him. He surrendered to the ocean.

A few hours later, he woke from a dreamless sleep, moonlight peeking in from under the blinds. For the first time in weeks, his mind felt clear, light. Jester's warm weight stayed cuddled at his side, her drool pooling onto his shirt collar. Beau had moved off of her perch at some point and was now nestled cozily between Jester and the wall, fast asleep with the DS still resting on her stomach. The soft sounds of their snoring filled their room, anchoring his bones to his body.

Fjord closed his eyes, and breathed deep.


	16. A Conversation (Beau/Yasha)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nott overhears a quiet exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was rewatching romance scenes from CR1, and it made me want to write some dialogue that could feasibly happen in canon, episodes and episodes in the future, after Beau and Yasha have had some actual, gradual relationship development.

Nott never sleeps straight through the night. It’s a residual effect from growing up with the clan, always on guard, always ready to ward off potential threats, whether they be from outsiders or kinsmen. With the Nein, she feels safer than she ever has, but she still wakes often, the cold night air numbing her face.

She curls deeper into her bedroll and is just about to fall back asleep when low, familiar voices reach her ears, barely distinguishable from the faint flicker and snap of the campfire.

“It’s not just fear, you know.” Yasha, even softer than usual. “It used to be that, but now it’s… it’s beyond that.”

“What do you mean?” There’s Beauregard, not quite whispering. But as gentle, as close, as Beau can get.

“It used to be about being scared. Of losing someone again. Of hurting someone again.” A long, deep breath. “I promised myself I was done with that, forever.”

“But you’re not scared anymore?”

“The opposite. I think I am more scared than ever.” Low, humorless laughter. “But I’ve realized that’s… that is out of my control. But you, Beau…”

“I’m in your control?” Cocky, teasing. Just from the tone Nott can picture the crooked grin flashing across the monk’s face.

Laughter again, more genuine this time. “In… a manner of speaking.” Yasha stops and starts, over and over, in the way that she does when she is thinking very hard about her words. “I already care about you. About all of you, so there is nothing I can do about that now, other than protect you all as… as much as I’m able. Mollymauk taught me that.”

A long, loaded silence, filled only by the campfire and the distant chirping of insects.

“But,” Yasha continues finally, softly, “as I said, it is beyond fear with you now. I only… I can’t—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” says Beau, low and earnest in a way Nott didn’t know she could be.

“I want to be fair to you, though. But I’m not—we cannot…”

“Yasha,” she says. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“You make me want a future with you, Beauregard. You make me  _see_ a future with you, a happy one.”

Quiet. Then a long, shaky breath, and—

“I know.”

“So, I can’t. We can’t.”

“I know,” Beau repeats, soft, so soft, her words swallowed by the flicker of fire.

The sounds of restless shifting and shuffling. A sudden low chuckle, like a distant roll of thunder.

“You know,” Beau murmurs, “I’ve always been shit at sitting still. Letting things be. It’s why I still can’t figure out that whole meditation thing.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed.” Nott imagines that Yasha is wearing her version of a smile, now: the faintest quirk of the corner of her mouth.

“The thing is…” A slow breath. “The thing is, I think I’m getting better at it. The thing is, I can do it for you. I’ve  _been_ doing it for you.” Another quiet laugh. “Sitting still. Letting things be.”

“Beau—”

“You can come and go, Yash. Do your thing. Do anything. Everything. Meanwhile… I’ll be here. I’ll wait.”

“No. That’s not at all fair to you.”

“I don’t need it to be.” More soft, easy laughter. “I don’t want it to be fair.”

“I would like it to be, though.”

A long, long, long pause. 

“Until when?” Yasha again, barely above a whisper.

“Until you’re ready. Or…” Quick hesitation. “Until you, uh… don’t want me, obviously. Till then, I’m, you know. Here. Sitting still.” One last laugh, and this time it’s bright. “In your control, right?”

“And what if I’m never ready?” There’s an audible hint of a challenge in Yasha’s words.

“Not a problem.” Her reply is instant. “Long as ya want me, Yash, just this, all this—it’s, well, you know… enough. For me.” An exhale. “Enough for me.”

Nott waits, breath held, waiting for the sound of a kiss, for them to hold hands, for something, anything. Nothing comes, and Nott flips over in her bedroll and lifts her head, just a little, to see the shape of the silhouettes around the campfire.

She sees Beauregard, her back to Nott and the rest of the camp, sitting cross-legged on the ground with her staff by her side, her shoulders relaxed. And seated across the fire, three whole feet of distance between them, is Yasha. The flames illuminate her features, orange light dancing across her eyes, eyes that have sent enemies running in terror, eyes that are trained entirely on Beauregard. There’s a look in them that Nott’s never quite seen before, something softer and sweeter than every flower Yasha has ever collected.

Nott lies back down, quiet as she can, and thinks that Beau really is wiser than she pretends. Because she’s right. That look—that look really must be enough, for as long as she gets to receive it.


	17. Angry (Jester/Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester gets angry. (Slight spoilers for Ep. 46)

 

_“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you angry.”  
_

_“It’s a sight to behold.”  
_

_“I’d like to see it someday.”  
_

_“Someday, I’m sure you will.”_

* * *

 

Jester felt the moment Beau’s heart stopped beating. One second, there was noise, yelling, the clamor of fighting, Jester’s own panicked breaths as she fought to just  _get to her_ , gods, please,  _let me save her—_ and the next, silence. The fighting continued, Jester’s own body didn’t even stop moving, but Jester no longer heard any of it. For that one, teetering moment Jester just  _knew_ , and all that was left was cold silence.

“ _Beau!_ ” And then she was there, dragging Beau’s crumpled, still body into her lap. Beau was  _never_ still, not even in sleep, but now, but now _—_ “Beau, you asshole, don’t fucking leave me now, you said you wouldn’t abandon me _—_ you _promised—”_

She cast Cure Wounds. Nothing happened, no stirring movement or sudden gust of breath entering Beau’s lungs. The steadiness of her heartbeat remained absent, silent,  _stolen_ from Jester’s world.

Her head snapped up. She left Beau’s body to the side, as gently as she could still make her hands. Ice formed around her, rising from the ground where she stood, with every step she took, frosty mist curling in the air like wings. She barely noticed any of it. All she saw were those pieces of shit who made Beauregard break her promise.

All they saw was what appeared to be a demon ripped from the Nine Hells themselves, summoned to rend their souls. It would be the last thing they’d ever see.

“Now,” said Jester, “now, you’ve made me angry.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three hours, a few dozen deaths, and one whisky-soaked resurrection ritual later, Beau’s eyes flew open.

Jester flung herself into her arms, tackling her still half-dead friend into the ground. It was hard to worry about that, though, when she was  _here_ , she was alive, the steady song of her heartbeat returned now to anchor Jester’s breathing.

“Shit, Jes,” she said gruffly. “Ow. Still kind of super injured.”

“You missed it,” Jester said, watery. “I got so fucking pissed, Beau, so angry. You should’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, well. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Beau smiled. “We have plenty of time for me to see it again, yeah?”

 


	18. Wingman (Jester/Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester and Beau argue. Because they're friends. Best friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Impulse-wrote this while stoned and sleepy, instead of working on my WIPs or research papers. True to form!

Once they finally make it to the private refuge of their shared room, Beau rounds on her, apparently no longer able to hold her silence.

“You can’t just  _use_ me to make some boy you like jealous. That—that’s really fucking shitty, Jes.”

“Okay,  _first_ of all,” says Jester, grabbing Beau’s elbow to stop her from storming out to the bar, “it’s not ‘some boy I like,’ it’s fucking… it’s just  _Fjord_ , okay? And second of all, I thought friends helped each other with this kind of stuff. Aren’t you supposed to be, you know, my wingman or something?”

“Sure, Jessie,” she says scathingly, “I’m just your lesbian plaything for you to flirt with and touch and  _deploy_  to make dudes pay attention to you. That’s a real classic.”

Jester lets go of her elbow as if she’s been burned. “What—what the fuck, Beau, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! You  _know_ I don’t think of you that way, you asshole.” Her hurt quickly melts into indignation, anger. “And don’t pretend that you don’t do the exact same thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Beau says hotly, but all of a sudden she won’t quite look Jester in the eye.

“I know you got super happy that time Yasha asked me if you and I were, like, a  _thing._ ” Jester folds her arms, takes a step closer to her, but Beau doesn’t flinch or back away. “And then, you, you hug me more when Yasha is around, you’re all cuddly with me and touch-y and nice all while you’re trying so hard to flirt with  _her_.”

Now Beau flinches. “That’s not—” she splutters, scrubs a hand across her face. “Fuck you, Jester, that’s—we’re friends, aren’t we? I thought—best friends. You said.”

They both know she’s dodging the point. Beau and Jester have always been physically affectionate, but it’s true that Beau is normally uncomfortable about initiating, instead letting Jester drag her into bear hugs and cuddle piles unless slaver kidnappers are involved. But when Yasha’s there, when Yasha’s watching, Beau suddenly has no problem draping an arm around Jester’s shoulders, dropping a kiss on her head when she stands to get more beer, holding hands when they’re strolling through the marketplace together. Her gaze trained on the aasimar’s inscrutable face all the while.

“We are. We’re friends.” Jester’s tone is steely, but there’s a tiny hitch of vulnerability there, too. They’re standing so close together now, eyes alight with anger, that Beau can count every freckle spilled across Jester’s face. “Best friends.”

“Best friends,” Beau repeats, and Jester can see the muscle under Beau’s left eye twitching, just a little. She can see the faint, wobbly discoloration of a days-old bruise on her cheek, healed enough to be hard to detect against the warm brown of her skin.

They hold their position, practically nose to nose, barely an inch gapping their bodies. Then finally Beau is the one who darts her gaze away, takes a small step back. Room to breathe.

“Yeah,” says Jester, voice smaller now. “So, like, best friends hug each other and cuddle and hold hands, and we do those things. And we do those things in front of Fjord, and in front of Yasha, so I don’t know why you got all—freaked out this time.”

“You  _kissed_  me, Jester.”

“We’ve kissed before.”

“Not on the mouth. Not—not like  _that._ ”

(Jester yanking her in by the collar, mouths meeting close-lipped and chaste, until Beau settles a gentle hand on the small of her back and Jester surges forward and suddenly there’s tongue, and the faintest hint of sharp teeth. Then they pull apart, and Beau’s looking at her but Jester’s looking at something above and behind Beau’s shoulder, eyes blazing with a challenge. Her hands rest, still, on Beau’s collarbone.)

They hold their stare-off for another moment before Jester deflates. Neither of them are glaring, now, but they’re standing farther away from each other than they were just a few moments ago, and an inexplicable part of Jester yearns to say,  _come back. Come back to me._

“I’m really, really sorry,” she says finally. “I should have asked, Beau. That was a super shitty thing to do.”

Just like that, Beau melts. “Thanks,” she mumbles, awkward and uncertain now that they’ve moved from the realm of argument to apology. “But, uh—you’re right. We wingman for each other. I made too big a deal out of it, just—”

“No,” Jester insists, and abruptly she’s reaching out to squeeze the monk’s wrist in an iron grip. “No, you’re right. It was a big deal, and I shouldn’t have done it like that.”

“You had a point, though,” Beau counters. “Friends hug. Friends even kiss. It doesn’t matter.” She eyes her cautiously. Doesn’t pull her arm away. “Because we’re friends. Right, Jes?”

“Friends,” Jester repeats. The word hangs taut in the air between them. She can feel Beau’s rapid heartbeat pulse through the vein of her wrist. “Friends,” she says again. “But I think it matters, still, a little. A lot.”

“Oh,” says Beau. Jester’s grip is starting to hurt, almost.

They hold their breath. Neither move. Caught in stasis.

Beau settles a gentle hand on the small of Jester’s back.


	19. Beaches (Fjord/Molly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, an anon requested Fjord/Molly + "things you said when you were crying."

Not all of Fjord’s dreams are about roaring seas and eldritch gods demanding he kneel.

“Although I can’t honestly say I’d be  _upset_  if you wanted to fall on your knees before me,” Molly remarks in his infuriating, lilting voice. Teasing, warm, as familiar as slipping on an old pair of leather gloves that have long learned the shape of your hands.

He looks as he always used to when he and Fjord were alone: his flamboyant coat shed to the side, leaving a plain white tunic with the front undone just enough to show off the scarred lavender of his chest, as if he were the cover image of one of Jester’s books. The only difference now is that instead of a dingy inn room, it’s an endless sea of sand meeting the edge of green ocean that backdrops Molly’s brilliant smile.

“Tell you what,” says Fjord, gathering himself, “I’ll kneel for you all you want if ya ever manage to beat me in a sparring match.”

“So cocky,” Molly remarks, grinning wider. “Your win was a complete fluke, I’ll have you know.”

“And the three matches before that?”

“Three flukes.”

“Really now? Sounds like a pattern to me.” He leans back on his palms, smirking. The sand is soft between his fingers.

“I think the  _pattern_ was that you always insisted on taking your shirt off before every fight,” says Molly with a huff. “Deploying distractions was a dirty trick, my friend.”

Fjord winks. “What can I say?” he drawls. “I learned to leverage every advantage available to me.”

Molly slides him an impish look. “Is that why you deepthroated my sword?”

“Wha—” Fjord coughs, wills himself not to blush. “That is  _not_ how my falchion works, why does everyone keep saying that—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, darling.” He laughs. “I’m glad it was you. It was always meant for you.”

His throat is very, very dry, now. “I dunno, Molls.” He looks away. “I think the sword looked better on you.”

“Hm. Maybe I wasn’t talking about the sword.”

“What were you talking about, then?” Fjord folds his arms, trying to look dour. Trying to calm his trembling hands. “And if you say  _your heart_ , I promise I’m going to push you into the water.”

Molly just waggles his eyebrows, still grinning. “Getting quite ahead of yourself, aren’t you? Trying to put a ring on this finger, Fjord?”

He doesn’t answer. The banter, his voice—it’s all familiar in a way that hurts, like someone’s gouging away at his heart with a rusty spoon. A slow death.

“Gory image,” Molly remarks. “Kind of gross, really. I’m so proud.”

“Learned from the best,” he murmurs.

Molly shakes his head and sighs, his breathing synchronized to the tide. He leans forward, cups Fjord’s jaw in his palm. Gentle, gentle.

“Ridiculous man,” Molly says, smiling softly. “Why in the world are you crying?”

“’M not,” he says. His lips move against Molly’s palm. He doesn’t pull away.

“Oh, of course not.” He nods solemnly, brushes away the dampness on Fjord’s cheek with his thumb. “It must be seawater leaking out of your pores, that’s all. We really ought to get those wet dreams of yours checked out by a medical professional, someday.”

Fjord exhales, lifts a hand to wrap around Molly’s wrist. Traces the crisscross pattern of old scars, tries to press their memory into his own skin.

“I wish you could have seen this,” whispers Fjord. “I wish I could’ve shown it to you. You would have loved the ocean. And how do you feel about becoming a pirate?”

“Oh, it’s not my first career choice.” Molly hums. Imparts that easy grin of his. “But I wouldn’t say I’ve completely ruled it out.”

“Always willing to give anything a chance, right?” Fjord’s smile feels creaky, carved-out in comparison.

Molly huffs a laugh. “Always,” he agrees. “Always.”


	20. Slow Burn (Jester/Beau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're a slow burn, the two of them. (Spoilers for Ep. 55)

If she had to guess, Jester would say it probably happened sometime between that one conversation on a stormy night at sea, and the moment Beauregard tears out the beating heart of the eldritch horror-flavored bull monster. Yeah, it must have been somewhere in between those two things that Jester started… Uh.  _Noticing_ Beau. In some maybe not-so-sisterly slash best-friendly ways, maybe.

Like, were Beau’s morning workouts always so  _impressive_ , with the hundred push-ups she made look effortless, and the pull-ups and stretching exercises that hiked her shirt up to reveal even more of her toned abs glistening with the faintest sheen of sweat? Did she always end those workouts with this careless, cocky grin tossed over her shoulder, and did that little quirk of her mouth always look so damn sexy?

Were Beau’s eyes always so  _blue_ when she laughed, her skin so warm and brown beneath the white sun? And Jester’s always admired the way Beau dodged hits and weaved her way in and out of combat, but did she never notice the sheer gracewith which she moved, the downright  _gallant_  way Beau threw herself ahead of her friends into battle, attracting the enemies’ attention and materializing at Jester or Caleb or Nott’s side whenever they needed her most? Did Beau always carry herself with this ruffled, rakish handsomeness—like a pirate prince from Jester’s books, cocksure and kind, extending a hand to pull Caduceus up to his feet after a hard battle, teasing and jabbing Fjord at the same time as she tosses him a healing potion from her own rations? Was it always so endearing how Beau winks and flirts with Yasha, leaning back with arms folded trying to be cool only to dissolve into stumbled words and self-deprecating laughter? Did Jester’s heart always squeeze and ache when she watched the two of them together, when she thought about Yasha rolling her eyes fondly and lifting Beau into her arms?

These are the kinds of problems Jester ponders as they recover after the near-disastrous fight beneath the well, her shoulder pressed into Caduceus’s side, his warmth and steady breathing reminding her he’s alive,  _alive_ , they’re all alive. Including Beauregard, who—apart from being drenched in monster blood and guts, bits of gore still smeared across her face despite her best efforts to wipe herself clean—appears more or less unharmed for once. Relatively speaking.

She makes her way over to the clerics, and Jester’s staring at her maybe a bit too much as she crouches down and claps a hand on Clay’s shoulder, some silent exchange passing between them as they gaze at each other for a long moment before breaking into mirrored grins. Some of Beau’s hair has fallen out of her topknot. There are strands pressed to her forehead with sweat and blood, some dark brown locks falling into her eyes or curling around her ears. And Jester stares.

Beau’s eyes dart from Caduceus over to Jester, and suddenly she is staring back. Her grin softens into a frail, gentle smile, the one Jester secretly suspects is reserved for her and her alone.

“You alright there, Jes?” she says, quiet.

And as Jester  _notices_ her, the crook of her smile and the light of her eyes and the way she wears the scars of the last battle like a silk cloak, a second skin—she thinks maybe it started happening earlier than that night on the ship, earlier than she ever thought. Maybe it happened when they slept wrapped together with Kiri cuddled between them, or when Beau carefully tucked a blanket around her in Alfield as if Jester was the most important person in the world, or when she gave her the healer’s kit in Trostenwald with a roll of her eyes and a fond smirk. Maybe it’s been happening all along.

“Everything’s fine,” says Jester, with a slow smile. “Thank you for asking.”


	21. One Kiss (Fjord/Caleb)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> toburyyou requested Caleb/anyone + "If I kiss you right now, I won't be able to stop."

_“If I kiss you right now, I won’t be able to stop.”_

 

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Fjord asked, smiling crookedly. “Because honestly, that sounds like a real solid plan to me. No objections here.”

Caleb hesitated. He made… a compelling argument. Infinite kisses did not seem like the worst thing in the world at the moment. Why would he ever have to stop, again?  _I could drown in him. He could burn to ash beneath my fingers._ That was something, he thought idly, slowed by too much ale.

They were standing together in the empty inn hallway, ostensibly about to part ways for the night. Fjord leaned against the door to the room he shared with Caduceus. The amber of his eyes seemed to match the flickering lantern-light around them.

“You, my handsome, reckless friend,” said Caleb, placing a hand on Fjord’s shoulder, “are very drunk.”

“So are you.”

“I am very drunk,” Caleb agreed. “And, ah, you and me… we are not known to make the best decisions when we are sober, the two of us together.”

“You participate in one minor blood ritual one time and no one ever lets ya forget it,” sighed Fjord. He was still teasing, too inebriated to be shy or apologetic.

But Caleb himself was not yet drunk enough to mistake present for past, to trust his desires or fall carelessly into impulse. Not tonight. He let out a slow breath, and the pleasant fog of alcohol seemed to lift from his stupidly noisy mind for one aching moment.

“I just do not want you to regret anything in the morning,” he said softly, looking away.

Fjord watched him, unnervingly steady until Caleb’s gaze was drawn back to his face. Then he lifted his arm to squeeze the wizard’s hand still resting on his shoulder.

“In that case,” he said, “how about we save that kiss for the morning, if the both of us are still up for it? Then, you can stop or not stop, and we’ll go from there.” He winked in his awkward way, but his eyes were gentle, serious. “Either way, man… I won’t regret a thing.”

Caleb breathed. In, out. Slipped his hand out from under the warm weight of Fjord’s fingers, so he could rest both palms on either side of the taller man’s face. He got the hint, and let himself duck to Caleb’s level.

Caleb pressed his lips to the scar sliced across his upper brow, breathed him in for one long heartbeat. And then he pulled back.

“Good night, my friend. Sleep well.”

 


	22. Favours (Jester/Beau)

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Uh.” Beau blinks, confused. “Do what?”

Jester is seated on the edge of her bed, the intent stare she’s giving Beau at complete odds with her flowery pink nightgown. “You know,” she says, making a vague, frustrated hand motion. “Like… when you offered to room with Caleb and Caduceus. Or when you try to let me take point with Fjord even though you were about to go with him. Or when you switch seats at breakfast so I can sit next to him, or—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” She squints at Jester, still unable to read her expression, which is weird for them. “I just… Sorry, Jes, I didn’t mean to annoy you or anything. Thought I was doing you a favour.”

She cocks her head. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you think that stuff would be, like, a favour to me?”

“Uh…” Beau rubs the back of her neck, suddenly uncomfortable. Was Jester really gonna make her  _say_ it? “Y’know. Because… you like Fjord, right? And I’m your friend. So I was trying to, y’know, wingman for you, get you guys together even though—”

She cuts herself off just in time.  _Crap._

“‘Even though’?” Jester’s stare goes all intense again. “‘Even though’, what?”

“Nothing,” she says hastily. And it  _is_ nothing. It’s just a tiny, stupid crush that she’s failed to squelch despite her best efforts, because she’s a weak, predictable dumbass whose heart leaps whenever her nice, beautiful best friend smiles at her.  _Ugh._ She’s sure it’ll go away once Jester and Fjord hook up for real. They’re her friends, and they’re good people who are good for each other, and once they’re together, she’ll finally be able to move on from this humiliating little bump.

“Beau…” says Jester, narrowing her eyes.

“Okay, look. I just mean—I want you to be happy, Jes.” Her eyes soften, deflective walls falling away. “I want you to be happy, and get everything you want. You deserve it, you know?”

“Alright,” says Jester, in this small voice that sounds so unlike her.

Then she’s reaching out and yanking Beau in by the elbow, and Beau crashes down next to her on the bed. Halfway in Jester’s lap, really, faces close enough that she can feel Jester’s cool breath on her skin.

“Wha—?”

“Did you ever think,” Jester says seriously, but there’s that familiar bright spark in her eyes, like she’s got some brilliant, disastrous idea desperate to spring free, “did you ever think, that, maybe, you make me happy? Like, maybe… all I want is you.”

_Oh._

Beau’s heart leaps.

“No,” she says. “No, I hadn’t considered that.”

“Well,” Jester says, leaning in, “maybe you should have, dummy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt (from an anon) was Beaujester + "All I want is you."


	23. Temperature (Fjord/Jester)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mamzellecombeferre requested Fjorester + "Are you sure you're not cold?"

“Yes, Jester, I  _told_  you. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I’m feeling a little warm right now.”

“Oh, reaaally.” Jester was skeptical. “Then why are you shivering? Scared of something, Fjord?”

“I–I’m not shivering.” In his haste to argue he nearly bit his tongue off because of his chattering teeth, but that didn’t mean he was  _cold._ It didn’t mean anything.

Jester rolled her eyes and began shrugging out of her traveling cloak.

“Jester, no,” he protested. “You’re going to fucking freeze, come on.”

“Thought you said it wasn’t cold.”

“I said  _I_  wasn’t cold!”

“You’re silly,” she said, fond. “Besides, I  _actually_  never get cold because I am super cool and strong, so you don’t have to worry, okay?”

Before he could argue further, she swept off her cloak with a flourish and wrapped it snugly around Fjord’s shoulders. He could feel his traitorous muscles relaxing in relief as the fabric, still soaked with warmth from Jester’s skin, settled against his bare arms. It was… pretty nice, actually.

 _This fuckin’ icy hell-hole of an Empire,_ he thought grumpily. He’d never needed anything more than his leathers in all his years traveling around the Menagerie Coast. Meanwhile Caleb and Beau were riding on horses somewhere behind the cart in their usual attire, and they didn’t seem bothered at all by the snow whipping around them.

Jester began to giggle.

“What’s so funny, now?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Jester grinned at him. “It’s just, you know, we are not really, like, the same  _size,_ so… You know. Maybe my cloak isn’t really the perfect fit, so maybe you look a little bit silly, but that’s okay!”

“Well,” Fjord drawled, pulling the fabric tighter around himself, “I was thinking it rather suits me, actually. You don’t think so?”

“Fjord, fuck, you’re gonna  _stretch_ it.” She bit back more laughter. “You look fucking ridiculous.”

“What?” He raised a brow, hurt. “You don’t think the colour brings out my eyes?”

“Okay, you asshole, I changed my mind. Gimme back my cloak, and you can just get frostbite and, like, have your arms and toes fall off or something.”

“Too late, Jes.” He grinned. “I’m attached to it now, and it’d be mighty rude for you to take back a gift.”

“Well, I have been told I am pretty rude, so…” Jester lunged for him, and they wrestled around the cart (empty save for the two of them, thankfully) until Jester was more or less straddling Fjord’s lap. Her smile crooked into a toothy smirk.

She looped her arms around his neck. “There,” she said happily. “A compromise.”

“I can live with that,” he agreed, settling his hands on her waist to steady her. “You’re very warm, and fit me a lot better than your clothes do.”

Jester waggled her brows and opened her mouth to probably make a dirty joke, but she was cut off by a loud voice behind them:

“Gods. Get a room, you two!”

“Fuck off, Beau!” he called automatically.

“Shut up, Beau,” called Jester at the same time.

Beauregard just laughed at them in response, guiding her horse to overtake them.

“You can’t evensee us,” Fjord pointed out. Magic cart making them invisible, and all.

“No, but I can  _hear_ you,” she drawled. “And I can imagine the sappy fucking looks you’re giving each other. Among other things, speaking of fucking…”

“We have never and will never fuck in the cart,” Fjord protested.

“Maybe we should fuck in the cart,” Jester said thoughtfully, at the same time.

“Beauregard, please do not give them ideas,” groaned Caleb, also at the same time.

Beau snickered again.

Jester shot Fjord a sly, sideways look.

“Hmm.” Fjord pretended to consider. “Maybe when I’m not in danger of gettin’ frostbite, Jes.”

Her grin lit up once more. She bumped her forehead against his, whispered, “Fine. I’ll hold you to that, y’know.”

“Oh, I hope you do.” He smirked.

“Gods save us all,” said Caleb.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [@halfgap on tumblr](http://halfgap.tumblr.com/).


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